Inheriting Shame

Illustration by Yinne Smith

My mother starved herself for almost a year when I was nine in the name of losing weight. In that time, she literally ate nothing except for the Nutrishakes that the weightloss company sent her. At the end of it all, she was as skinny as she could have ever wanted to be, but only after months of sobbing, yelling, and intensely hurting from depriving her own body of what it so desperately needed. 

Watching her go through it as a young girl, I didn't really understand why it was so important to lose weight, I just knew it was something that had to be done. I even came to admire her for her dedication and willpower. 

Looking back, the memory of this time saddens me. I don't think any amount of weight loss should be worth so much pain. And yet, each time I feel myself gaining a little weight, eating a little too much, or having a slightly harder time fitting into my clothes, my mind immediately jumps to thinking, "I have to stop eating." Luckily, I usually snap out of it before I seriously do anything to harm myself, but the existence of that initial thought is still so telling. 

When I was in middle school, I remember feeling jealous of people who were anorexic. I even got mad at myself for not having the "willpower" to starve myself, when it was really my body protecting itself from me. It was such a backwards, disgusting way of thinking, but I didn't know any better. What's even more surprising is how many girls I've talked to about body image have told me they also used to think similar things, some of them even being driven into eating disorders from thoughts like that. It wasn't until I was well into my teenage years that I understood the danger and tragedy of eating disorders, and how so many people have been pushed towards them because we've been taught to hate ourselves anytime our body gets a little bigger. But when were we "taught" that? By the things we saw on TV, the headlines on tabloids, from other girls at school, and from our mothers. 

My mother taught me that eating and gaining weight were shameful things from the time I was a little girl without a shred of fat on my body. I remember how every time she caught me eating second helpings of dessert as a girl, she would remind me, "A minute on your lips, forever on your hips," and convince me to put it back. 

As a teenager, she would eye me when I came home and remark that I was looking a little fatter than usual. When I started wearing leggings as pants, she said I should stick to jeans because they are tighter and will tell me when I'm getting fatter. I still can clearly remember the shame I felt after these and so many other seemingly-innocent comments.

And now as an adult living on my own, after my mother has not been in this world for over two years now, I still hear her words when I look at myself in the mirror. I weigh more than I ever have, but I'm still thin. And yet, everytime I have to buy new clothes, wear a swimsuit, or even just take a selfie, I still feel shame in some corner of my heart. I have been taught to fear fatness for so long that it is embedded in me, and it has taken so much work to get to a place where I don't hate my own body for just existing. 

Despite how it might seem, I'm actually not mad at my mother. These memories make me more sad for her than for myself, because they remind me how much pain she endured and shame she had internalized all her life. Each one of those backhanded comments was secretly charged with the same pain that drove her sobs and her screams in that year of starving herself. All she was trying to do was protect me from having to hurt in the same way. 

No, my mother didn't do it out of malice. She taught me shame just the same way her mother had done to her, and her grandmother had done to her mother. What a sick family trait to pass down through generations. 

Of course, it's not just my family. This same story is true for many other women and girls around the world.

I know all these women think they are doing what is best for their daughters. My mom wanted me to always be seen as beautiful and smart and healthy; all these things that we associate with thinness, but really have no correlation. 

I wish more than anything that my mom was around today so that when she told me I was looking a little chubbier than usual, I could smile back at her and say "I know. And I'm okay with that." 

I wish I could tell her that the size of our bodies shouldn't be what stops us from living the life we want or from being happy. I wish I could tell her that she was worth all the love in the world no matter what her size. I wish I could tell her these things everytime she stepped off the scale with a look of defeat in her eyes, and hug her and tell her she's as beautiful as she's ever been. 

Without her here now, all I can do is try to give myself the same love and understanding I wish I could have given her. My body is nothing to be ashamed of. I am still smart, I am still beautiful, and I am much healthier than I would be if I was starving myself. I'm grateful for this body that I have even if it isn't skinny enough to be on a magazine. And if I ever have a daughter, instead of teaching her shame, I'll only show her love.